To Have Loved

i miss being outside     -vivian               

There is no reason for it, you know. For what, Anita asks. For feeling like this, Anita, for talking about this again. Anita’s arms are around my shoulders, she the steady anchor, I the capsizing boat. Always the capsizing boat. 

It’s okay, it’s okay, she shushes. It’s okay. But how long has it been, Anita? Do you know? Can you remember? I wish someone did, Anita. I wish there were answers I could cling onto, but no, she whispers, no, I whisper, I don’t know.

I miss being outside, Anita. I know, I know, she softly sings to me, but she doesn’t know. She is only trying to comfort me, her voice as safe and strong as a lighthouse at night. Kind, good, warm—but she doesn’t know; how could she know?

I do not tell Anita because I’ve told her too much already, how I loved and how I lost. I’ve told her over and over again, infinite stories molded from a single memory. 

No, I do not tell her more because I’ve told her too much already. I want at least one thing that is fully and absolutely mine—is that selfish? Heartache, at least, can be fully and absolutely mine. Heartache, the child born out of our love, the one I will cradle in my arms and stare at until night becomes day and day becomes night. It has his eyes. It has my mouth. It has my heart and my blood, too, I tell Anita, and she asks, “What?” Never mind, Anita, I miss being outside, that’s all.

Go outside tomorrow, Anita suggests, but I say no, I cannot.

"Why not? You said you miss it," and then we are eternally quiet.

Later, after I wave goodbye and say thank you, Anita, and she says anytime, love, and after I wait for the darkness of outside to swallow her strong lighthouse body, I finally have an answer.

“Why not?” she had asked, and I had not told her because I wanted something fully and absolutely mine. 

So I stand inside the shower now, letting the water splash onto my naked body, and my voice murmurs. Because, Anita. Because. Maybe it is better to stay away from the things we miss for a little while; I don’t know, Anita. Maybe some things are just not black or white. They’re just not inside or outside. Anita, maybe some things, like heartache, prickle inside your belly no matter where you are.